The Love Song of Perseus and Andromeda
by greeeys
Summary: Mary and Matthew's future had been planned out for them (for the sake of the Crawley name, her parents explained.) They met each other as young adults, and had made childish promises. Now that they had grown up, changed, and made wiser, do their promises still hold true? (M/M Modern AU, with bits from the canon that I will twist)
1. Chapter 1

**PART I: The Beginning**

_Year 2010, when things are falling apart and the shattered pieces are being glued back together._

**Chapter One**

There is no more time to let the tears fall, nor is there time to stop and let herself breathe. No, she'll get her intake of air once the aeroplane takes flight. There is a mother waiting for her in Heathrow, and a Mr. Carson waiting for her in the waiting lounge of La Guardia. Her knees feel like molten metal already, but she can't let them fail her now.

_You're stronger than this, Mary. _

She didn't bother on the complications of bumping into people in the airport. People always rush in this place, they ought to get used to that.

An overhead speaker announces that her flight will leave in less than fifteen minutes. _Shit._

Walk faster. One feet in front of the other, one feet in front of the other. Her legs feel like crushing down, but she resisted against all her will. There is also the case of the moisture in her eyes. She hadn't cried in years, dammit. She surely wouldn't cry now. No future countess cries because of a boy. Especially Lady Mary Crawley. She would _never _shed a damned tear for anyone.

La Guardia airport is full of people, which makes it hard to find anyone, really, unless one has the privilege of the first-class lounge. In Mary's case, she wanted to feel for one last time like a woman of the ordinary world rather than the future Countess of Grantham. Everybody else in Downton dislikes the idea of the cabin Mary and Carson would take, especially her grandmother Violet, but she keeps herself in strong ground in her protest. Carson is not in favor of the economy-class cabin too, but he finds himself in no position to argue.

"Ms. Mary!" the familiar voice stops her dead on her tracks, making some people grunt in annoyance as they bump into her. In sudden panic, Mary whips her head to scan her surroundings, then seeing Carson a few yards away, she felt relief wash over her. _Hallelujah!_

Quickly, she makes her strides towards Carson long and swift, getting her feet to work for what they are supposed to be, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Carson. I really, _really, _tried leaving the penthouse as fast as I can."

"M'lady, forgive me for my rude insistence but there is an _economy-class _flight waiting for us, which we must attend to _now_," Carson reminded her in the coldest politeness he could manage, saying the words 'economy-class' with much disgust, which Mary can also give a soft chuckle at. "But nevertheless, I won't mention this tardiness or your trip here without me to Mrs. Cora."

"You're an angel, Carson. I couldn't have managed without you."

The butler (who also functions as her legal guardian in New York) now leads her to the body scans, and to the tarmac, where the hot air of the New York summer hoped to say good-bye to her. To avert her attention to the heartbreak she will leave behind, she focused on how the sneakers feel around her feet. She doesn't know when she'll get to wear comfortable (and quite cheaper) shoes again, so she keeps this small memory in her mind.

They reach the airplane, and seeing the very limited privacy economy has to offer compared to first-class, Carson can only sigh. "Oh, Carson, cheer up. This is _premium _economy." There is only so many things Mary can do before she breaks, and she wills herself to the duty of keeping her companion in a light mood.

"I suppose, my l- _Mary,"_ he replied. After some slightly formal proceedings to her seat, Mary insisted that the butler takes the seat closer to a young gentleman seating beside the window, and she will take the one near the aisle.

The airplane rattles her insides to mush, and she forces herself not to think of anything else but breathing. She had vowed to not take the proper breath of air until the plane is in the air, and she will do just that.

_Charles' words turns her into stone, her mind too busy processing their meaning to make her body react correctly, "Mary Crawley, you know how I feel for you. I love you – more than I could have the courage to say, more than how much I could show you."_

_"__Oh, Charles…"_

_"__And nothing can change my mind," he kneeled before her, in the balcony of the penthouse she is supposed to have left by now, "Before you go – "_

_"__Charles, stand up."_

_"__But, Mary, listen –"_

_"__I can't marry you." At her words, he finally did as she told. She closed her eyes, avoiding the look on his face that will haunt her forever. She is cruel, too cruel, and she knows this. When she opened her eyes again, Charles, too, had composed himself. There is a lump forming in their throats and before he could speak, Mary tried to explain herself._

_"__I cannot fit to the future you want me to be in, no matter how hard I try… no matter how hard I want to. And I cannot be sure."_

_Tremors had formed in his voice, and he wished he hadn't spoken in the first place, "Of what? Of us?"_

_It took all of her will – all of her courage, her whole strength – to nod. "I am so, so sorry. I did not try to mislead you, I swear. I simply fell out."_

_"__And all this time, you are lying to me? Did you even love me, Mary?"_

_Without second thought, she protested, "I did! Don't you ever think for a moment that I didn't love you because I did, ardently. Perhaps it's my uncertainty of everything or that I think everything is moving too fast – "_

_"__Oh, Mary, don't take me there again,"_

_The words, along with the pity and confusion and self-antagonism, are out before she has the power to pick them carefully, "Charles, I'm just eighteen! Whatever I feel for things now would be different in the future and I don't want to take a road I will regret." _

Regret. _She knows the impact of everything she had done, the price she will have to pay for the damage she had caused, and that no atonement could fix the ruins of the events on that balcony. "I am sorry, Charles." _

_And before he could say any word again, her phone buzzed in the inside of her jeans pocket, and she knew Carson is waiting for her at the airport. Without another word or a final good-bye, they left the penthouse together, and the elevator ride down is full of the ghosts of their silence. _

_On that afternoon, Charles Blake kept walking down the sidewalks of the Upper East Side, and Mary Crawley did not look back at him as she hailed for a cab. _

The small corners of the aircraft lavatory surrounds her now in her solitary moment of contemplation, which anyone could easily associate with Mary's sadness. As soon as the lock clicks, the tears falls down her pale cheeks, and she couldn't help but bite on her fists to muffle the sounds of her weeping. She can be incredibly stupid and pathetic, sometimes. Her homeschooling had helped her with the application to Oxford, but no one prepared her for the most emotional moments, which are almost always the most important.

She could have spoken her mind in any other way, in any other moment. The pain she had left could have been lessened, if not completely erased. And where is she now? On a flight to Downton, thinking it as an escape from the cruelty she had left New York with. She is only supposed to be there to study more in the first place, and she had landed safely into a city with no fresh bruises or wounds.

And how about Charles? He is a great young man taking a master's degree in Columbia University's business school. He is far away from home, from London, and he has already managed to make a clear path on making a name for himself, albeit in a foreign country. They met in Heathrow airport: Charles going back to New York and Mary making her first flight towards the city for charity work in her gap year, to make herself useful. After a few teas, a hundred text messages, and more calls, to put it shortly, they fell in love.

It is a complicated love story to tell, and a more complicated fall-out in that matter, but the ending goes like this: Mary Crawley is weeping now in the stall of an airplane washroom. It will take her more than a few minutes to finally have the courage to leave the haven she had formed in that four small corners.

...

As soon as Mary caught sight of the familiar geography of the country she called home, she can't help but smile to herself. Her eyes are tired from the crying and all her tears are used up, so she smiles. Beside her, Carson had woken up from a short flight nap. It's been hours, and after Mary's offer of tasting the whole menu available on-flight, Carson took the rest of their time on board napping.

He says in a makeshift ceremony, "Ah, Lady Mary Josephine Crawley, I now welcome you back… to England." London's sun had fallen by the hour, but the lights kept the city alive at night.

The captain announces that they will be landing ten minutes ahead of schedule, but even so, Mary still worried that Cora is getting impatient in waiting. Her mother would be extra cold with her, she knew, with her fashion of transportation and the whole event of going back to Downton on such short notice. She expects to be dragged back to the Abbey like a ragged doll in a limousine if it has to come down to it.

The plane makes a smooth, silent descent, although not entirely comfortable to ears. Then after getting their luggage, and trekking what feels like the whole expanse of the airport, they caught Cora and Robert alone in the arrival lounge deep in what seems like a serious conversation. There are no servants or airport staff with them, which bothered Carson the most.

"Mama! Papa!" Mary tried to sound enthusiastic to get on their good side. It was Robert who engulfed her in a bear hug, then when she couldn't anymore gasp for air, he released his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. Cora, on the other hand, is much gentler than her husband, and kissed Mary on the cheek first before they embraced. Her mother still smells like a walking Chanel No.5, and even if it gives Mary headaches, she hugged her mum tightly, taking in her scent carefully.

"Oh, darling, we've missed you. It's hard to get on in the house without you," she says softly.

"How about Sybil? Or Edith? How are my sisters?" Mary isn't really interested in seeing her sisters again. With Edith, there is a large history of sibling rivalry and a near-death incident to prove her disinterest and with Sybil, well, she's not a bitch and the fact that she's the unspoken favorite of the parents turns Mary's blood cold.

"They're well. Sybil's phoning up and keeping us updated with boarding school and Edith is still making path for Cambridge. Nothing's changed."

"And how about you, Carson?" Robert addresses the butler, "I take it that Mary behaved well in New York?"

"Splendidly, sir. There aren't any mishaps on our months of stay and Mary kept everything in great light."

"Except for the fact that an aristocrat - a future countess - would travel with the middle class."

Mary intercepts then, "Oh, Papa, quit it. We live in the twenty-first century, for God's sake, and you worry that I travel the way most people travel."

Cora agrees with Robert's opinion on this, but Mary was grateful that before her father could speak, Cora said sternly, "Robert, just… shut up." And then, "Let's all just go home. We'll have all night on the road on the way back to Downton."

...

The luxury saloon has enough comfortable space to fit three of the Crawleys, with Carson and a chauffeur in front. Mary put on her earphones as soon as they got on the road and turned her music to maximum volume to avoid any conversation with her parents. Coldplay swells in her ears, and, jetlagged and emotionally exhausted, she rested her head upon her mum's shoulder, taking in her Chanel No. 5 again.

Cora intended to talk to her about the state of the house that would, in the future, be hers. And wanted to talk privately some more on the topic of Charles Blake, a secret they both kept away from Robert's or the sisters' prying ears. Seeing her daughter, she removed all thoughts of conversation. Everything can wait.

Mary never left her room the day after she arrived.

She slept until one in the afternoon, and Mrs. Hughes took her meals to her room in a tray. Contrary to what she expects, Cora didn't visit her in her room. She isn't sick or anything, but it isn't wrong to feel loved every now and then after some romantic complication, if she could even call it that. There is a stack of DVDs in her room – various films and television series she liked – and deciding that she wanted to feel less depressed, she started a _Doctor Who _marathon.

A few episodes into the series, someone knocked on her door. The voice on the other side of the door is muffled. "Open up, Mary Josephine, it's Anna."

Hearing her voice once again, she feels like she could climb up Mt. Everest. As fast as she can, she climbs out of bed, opens the door, and without even a pause, she hugged the blonde girl by her doorway. Anna still has her hair up in a bun, still wears the silver necklace from her grandmother, and still has her nails painted a dark shade of blue. Compared to Mary, who still hadn't taken a shower despite the fact that it's already near sundown, Anna looks more composed in her grey sweater, skintight jeans and sneakers.

There, down the hall of Downton Abbey, two figures separated by class are enclosed in a tight embrace, as if it would gain back the months without each other.

"Christ, Anna, you still look bloody amazing!" Mary finally said. Her eyes are turning glossy, and Anna remarked, "And you're still a crier. When will that ever change?"

"Never," And again, she hugged the blonde, "Oh God, I've missed you! So, so, terribly much."

"I missed you too. More, if I could even say that." And noticing the telly, she asked, "Are you watching _Doctor Who? _That's not good."

Mary broke the hug, and says, "There's a reason why my messages does not include that kind of topic."

A growing protectiveness started to creep up Anna's nerves. That's the thing about best friends: they can be worse than mothers. "Is it Blake?"

"Anna, don't—"

"It's him, isn't it?"

So for better or for worse, the subject would inevitably reach the topic of Charles Blake. Mary sighs, and nothing more. Anna continued her privacy invasion, "So you finally got the balls to tell him? Damn, Mary, I told you you could do it. What did he say? Did he cry?"

"Oh, you're useless."

"What are friends for? For being the most useless pieces of cow shit, that's what."

To that, Mary laughed, feeling her light come back to her. Anna never keeps a moment dull between them, and is often the cheerleader of the two. She did have some downs, but once it's done, she buries it in the sand and lets her cat pee on it and pretend nothing ever happened. Mary, the other side of the same coin she's in, bottles everything inside her. She wouldn't bury the past, but will only have its photograph on a dressing table and never really look at it again.

"You go shower then," Anna steers her towards the bathroom door in her bedroom, "A nice, long hot shower and I'll be here watching _Doctor Who."_

It took her about forty minutes to decide whether or not it is already time to leave the bathroom. Outside, she could hear the noises of "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!" from the telly. She dressed inside the bathroom, her alabaster skin still flushed and warm. She has no intentions of going out, or anywhere around the house, really, so she decided to just stick with another pair of pyjamas.

Anna was asleep on her bed when she got out of the bathroom, curled up with the blanket up to her chin. Through the years of their friendship (since they were both thirteen, in fact) Mary had gotten used to this habit of Anna's. They had broken boundaries no proper lady would cross (except for the borrowing of underwear – they are too sane for that.) Once, Anna climbed up the window to Mary's bed via a trusted blanket because she found a spider in her room that day and Mary is too lazy to go down the stairs and open up the door. Yeah, crazy, aren't they?

"You told your mum you'll be sleeping here?"

Still groggy and eyes closed, Anna responds, "Not exactly. But she knows which way to go if she wants to find me."

"You're impossible," Mary says to her as she turns off the telly, shutting off the Doctor mid-sentence, "You know that?"

She sticks out a pointing finger at her, she yawns, "But you still love me."

"Git."

...

It was around seven in the evening when they got to bed, but it was already one in the morning when Mary and Anna felt drowsy enough to sleep. Somewhere through the night, they managed to watch the final _Lord of the Rings _film ("Because it's the only Tolkien film that matters!" Mary moaned when Anna shot her a judging glance,) got around to promise that they will be roommates in their dorm or flat in Oxford, and compose another thoughtless poem. Mary also told her what happened the day before, and everything else in between. Anna was silent throughout her storytelling, and Mary vowed that night to never cry in front of her again.

It is an understatement to say that Cora was shocked to see Anna in Mary's room that morning, on the other side of Mary's bed, hogging her quilt.

"Mary, dear—ANNA! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

The girl in question wakes up, still lethargic, and retorts, "Your daughter over here left me for eight months and had given me the luxury of sleeping on her bed last night. And good morning to you too, Mrs. Crawley."

"For heaven's sake, mum, leave us alone for a few more minutes and we'll get ready for breakfast," Mary whines, then planted a pillow over her whole head.

Cora heard her complaint, but ignored it. To Anna, she asks, "Does Mrs. Hughes know you're here?"

Nodding and smiling apologetically, she says, "I kind of begged her not to say anything, Mrs. Crawley. Sorry."

"You never fail to surprise me, Anna Smith."

"I promise to never surprising you, Mrs. Crawley."

Defeated, Cora sighs audibly. And before she bursts into a sermon of how it is incredibly reckless of Anna to arrive at Downton without prior notice, she reminds both of the girls about breakfast and walks out of the room with her shoulders slumped. Anna, suddenly mindful of her mum, frantically feels around under the pillow for her phone. Her vision's still blurry, and it takes her three times before she finally could input the correct passcode.

"Ah, bollocks! I'm one dead woman, Mary Crawley," she slaps her best friend's arm to wake her up and basically crawls swiftly towards her bag. Mary stares at her while she put on the most decent dress she has, amused at how Anna could move so quickly when it comes to her mother's rage.

"You could move faster than a slag from a one-night stand," Mary quips, to which Anna gave a rather princess-y curtsy. "Thank you, Your Majesty." She grabs her bag, tucks the phone in the dress pocket, and starts lacing her sneakers. When she turns to leave, Mary calls to her, "Anna, thank you. For being the opposite of useless without realizing it and all."

She shrugged her shoulders then with a grin she says, "What are best friends for?" She blows a kiss to Mary before she closes her door, and Mary watches her leave the Abbey with her bicycle. Once she's left and gone, Mary feels empty again.

...

"Mary, I need to talk to you," Cora says to her solemnly, as if with pity. They are alone now in the library and Mary is reading Collins' _The Hunger Games, _a small pleasure she found herself indulging when she found that the library is stacked once more with young adult titles. By Sybil, no doubt.

And Cora had undoubtedly cornered her in the library, since nobody could hear them talk here.

"Is it about the estate? Because you know we have the whole summer for you to barrage me with conversations of it."

The Countess looked at her sternly in the eyes, "Mary Josephine Crawley," she says this slowly, taking every syllable of the name to detail, and carefully, with that sympathetic tone familiar to mothers, "For once, sweetie, I need you to listen to me."

Mary set the book down delicately on the coffee table with the thought that if she puts it down without noise, her mother would soften up more now. Her hand may have slipped because it came down with a silent _thug. _"Alright then."

"You are aware that the inheritance will inevitably go to you. Downton, the estate, the money – you will have it when Robert's… gone," It was not her intention to put weight on the last word, and, thankfully, Mary kept a strong heart.

"Yes, I know about that. Go on."

"And you are made aware, at least once, I'm sure, of the role of Matthew Crawley in all this."

_Oh, God, no. _

Matthew is Robert's third cousin, once-removed. The family, of course, had never met him, or have connected with him in any manner. But one hazy day, when Mary's fifteen, Violet had made her sit down for tea and made her listen to a long, arduous explanation of marrying a man named Matthew Crawley. The bottom line is this: she has to marry him to keep the goddamned family name in the title.

She is told that supposed to marry her third cousin, Patrick, in the first place, if it hadn't been for the cancer. But still…

The world is a cruel place – that, she knows of firsthand. There are shouts wanting to escape her throat the moment she first heard of the plans for her. How dare they – Robert and Cora and Violet? This is the goddamned 21st century, for God's sake! She had made plans for herself, and for Downton, and now where will they go? Away, with all the shit and stones, to the gutter.

"Oh, Mama. Does everything have to come with a price?"

Her reply is an apologetic smile from her mother, and patiently, "Remember that your father married me because I'm broke."

"That is true. But it's a desperate cause, Mama, not just a bold and stupid attempt at family pride. I would not give up my whole future – my whole _life _– just because you, Papa, and Granny are conceited of the Crawley name."

"This house has seen time with the name of 'Crawley' in it, darling. Don't be the first heir to dirty it up with another name."

"I am a female heir! It is inevitable."

"But you are a Crawley, my dear, and no matter what you do, that doesn't change anything."

"So you will not side with me on this, then?"

"I want you to be happy. I do. But since you live under the roof that I financially save from falling apart, you ought to have conscience to do what's best for it next."

"Oh, Mama. It's just a name."

"Once Downton goes finally to you, you will understand that it's more than just a name." And that is the finality of it.

Cora stands up finally, leaving her daughter staring at spot on the couch she sat on, and when she was about to leave the doors of the library, she announces, "Matthew and his mother Isobel would be coming here for dinner. Tomorrow. I do not expect you to be on the best behaviour but I will be hoping."

"Alright."

"And I'm not entirely sure what happened with you and Mr. Charles Blake. I can only imagine the worst. And I'm terribly, terribly sorry, darling."

There is the cracking in Mary's voice that makes her want to turn back to her, to help her daughter get herself back on her feet. But she knows, too, that Mary wanted time alone. To gather courage, perhaps, or pour herself out in tears. "Oh, Mama…just… stay out of it."

The sound of the door closing echoed through the whole library, giving more weight to Mary's burden. She didn't finish the book, and only turns it back to its proper place on the shelf. She spent the rest of the day in that room on texting Anna giving her a full account of what happened, and what will happen.

Mary can only hope for the best.

...

Avoiding everyone, it seems to Mary, at least, is the only way you could hide from the inevitable. Victor Hugo muses her in _Les Misérables, _pulling her again to another world of fiction, albeit a real and cruel one. She refuses to believe herself as an escapist, but despite her resistance of the definitions of the word, she fits into it perfectly. There is a whole list of books she'd read during shady times to prove that.

She shifts herself on the couch, laying down more comfortably in a position her mother would scold her about. There is the anxiety of being seen, but really, what is so scandalous about reclining on your own couch? The sunlight provided her the proper solemn lighting and ambience. She is completely alone, again, in the library, which calmed her nerves more.

There is no need to check the time, but any minute now, the Matthew boy and his mother would be arriving at Downton. She refused to be a part of the welcome party, and whether they had come already or not, she would meet them at her own terms.

She can be a bitch sometimes, when she means to.

_"__The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only." _

She says, after taking a bite of the apple she's holding, "Oh, please, Hugo."

"Excuse me?"

The voice startled her and she is already on her feet before she could even mark her page. There is a man at the open door of the library – _Damn, _she thought, _I should've closed that, _– and he's staring back at her with a surprised look on his face. He has a golden mat for a hair, and pale eyes that Mary swore are the eyes of a dead man. He could be taller than her by a few inches, although she cannot be sure. He looks older, though, and is fit to be called a man, rather than a boy.

"Don't tell me you were looking for the bathroom," she says, although the coldness in her tone was unintentional. She cursed herself mentally on making another ice queen first impression. She's still holding the apple, and she loosened her grip on it.

"No," the man replies, "um… I was actually taking a tour around the house. Lord Grantham told me I could look around, if I wish."

"Without anyone else? That seems…" _Don't say creepy, don't say creepy. _"…uncanny."

"Lady Edith offered, but I insisted to go alone and get lost."

She scoffed at him lightly, "Congrats with that."

Seeing that they have not yet introduced themselves whatsoever, the blond comes slowly towards her, and extends an arm, "Forgive my manners. I'm Matthew. Crawley."

_Oh. _The look in her eyes told him everything right then, there is no need of introduction in her part. _No. _

He dropped his outstretched hand. She placed the book and the apple on the study table delicately, as if it is a fragile bomb.

"You are he, then."

"And you are Lady Mary Crawley."

"Yes," she says, still in the bubble of confusion and shock, "But just 'Mary'. Everybody else calls me 'Mary' anyway."

An awkward silence passed between the two, and Mary found interest looking at her shoes. He surveyed the library, mentally hurting himself to say something.

"It's a great house," he remarks, trying to break the silence that hurts his ears, "A humble, great one."

"Humble doesn't fit it, to be honest. It pretends to be, but it stands proudly."

He nods in agreement, "And so it does."

She sighs audibly, and her shoulders dropped their posture. Surely, they won't spend their first meeting pretending they don't know each other before that. They didn't, technically, but they know each other even before their meeting. "Let's cut this charade. I know you and you know me. And if we're not stubborn enough, we will marry each other in the end."

"You don't want that?" is his reply.

She couldn't read if he is hurt or relieved by her statement, and so she proceeds. "Well, I don't mean to offend and forgive the cliché, but I want to marry someone I love. My marriage would be my own decision."

He smiles; not a pity one or an apologetic one, but the smile that sighs relief. "I do, too, to be honest. If we are living now in the 1900s, I would be the heir presumptive and they would still have us marry each other. But thank God, we don't."

"But our parents like to pretend they do. They never left the Victorian era, even if they were never really there."

"I couldn't agree more."

"And now, here we are. Two lost souls in a path to chains. Dramatic, but true."

The grin didn't leave Matthew's face, and she's contented to know that their first page is a bright one.

He was about to part his lips to say something, but the library door opened again and in comes Carson, in his crisp butler uniform. "Dinner is ready, milady and… _sir _Crawley. Lady Grantham is waiting for you at the Saloon."

"Thank you, Carson. We'll be down in a second," she informs him. Subtly, the butler gives Matthew a once-over before leaving without another word. She could tell that Carson is suspicious of him, but then again, he is suspicious of everybody.

He motions towards the door, "Shall we?"

She nods and together, they left the library. No words passed between them as they make their way towards the Saloon, but it isn't an awkward, unsure silence. They make themselves comfortable with each other's presence, which, Mary hopes, would bring them both karma.

When Cora sees them together, she mouths her a 'thank you'. And Mary's lips beamed, happy to finally fix the bridges with her mother, for now.

* * *

A/N: I will not pretend to be an expert in the modern British high-class society or the English slang/words/phrases/etc., but I will try to get my portrayals accurate, I promise. Nothing much happened in this chapter. But stick with me on this, I will get there. Also, I'm not so sure about the airports featured in this chapter and I'm pretty sure I got something wrong and I apologize. One last thing: it's still early to judge anything, I think, but what are your thoughts about this? I'd like to hear it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey or its characters and all rights of the show goes to their proper owners.


	2. Chapter 2 (I)

_A/N: _I didn't realize I'm busy last week and I will be busier this coming week, so sorry for the length of this chapter. I'll post only half and I'm still working on the other half. I'll update this chapter as soon as I can, though. Your reviews give me life so keep 'em coming. Shout-out to jmar for the airport correction from that last one. :) (tbh, nobody can trust me with any place, really. I'm a lost, lost child so you guys will probably see another mistake at some point here. Hahaha!) Sorry for the thing. And, yeah, okay. I'll shush now.

* * *

**_Chapter Two_**

Haloes of fire light the faraway village of Downton. Or so it seems to Mary, who is taking sips from one of the cheap wines gifted to Robert by some American businessman years ago. She'd sneaked into the wine cellar for the bottle and two glasses (she has no idea why she got two), dressed only with her pyjamas and a robe. The scarlet liquid tasted like paper, and smells like it's still trying to be wine, but she takes another sip. There is a fire dancing on the hearth, and she'd drawn open the curtains for her view of the small village. Her choice of drink destroys the romance of her solemn scene.

The lights line just outside their fences, making fireflies where ground kisses sky. _Someday_, she thinks_, I will have obligations to those lights_. Another sip. _And I will lose my dreams of my marriage. _Finishes the glass.

Looking on the indecisions with Charles, she figured that perhaps this agreement with Matthew could be an advantage. No, it is more than that. It is certainty. Hell, how would she know who to marry if she can't even be sure who to love? How can she be sure on the kind of man who's sane enough to take her as a wife? She can imagine herself: forty, still a lonely maiden, and her two sisters are pregnant with a child, perhaps a second one already.

She had been ensured a position, and the marriage plan ensures her future and tying it with her parents' wishes. Maybe it could work. Maybe. He's six years older than her, she'd been informed at the dinner table, and is currently studying in Cambridge's Faculty of Law, much to Edith's delight of wanting to be in Cambridge too. "A lawyer, then. You would do a great deal to a house like Downton," Cora had said, quickly adding a look to Mary.

Of course, she thought, he would be useful. Suppose the marriage falls back, suppose that her parents change their minds and favour her, and suppose that she could turn her winds, Matthew wouldn't be just thrown away like a rag doll. A man like him could be a great alias, an acquaintance with a potential to be a powerful one, especially to a lost woman like her.

She heard the footsteps – reckless, and in an adventure – but she ignored them. Her distant gaze remains somewhere in the village. It is only when she heard the three knocks on wood that she realised she hadn't closed the door and she has a companion. Speak of the devil – Matthew.

"Sorry... I was just looking around. Again. Couldn't sleep," Matthew sounds as if his voice has gone rusty, as if unused for ages, even if he's just conversed with them during dinner. He is wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, thank God. At least they have some kind of common ground of being dressed for bed.

Mary fixes her position on the sofa and straightens her posture. The least she could do at being caught undone is appearing as if she still holds the crown. "I'll ring for another room to be fixed, if you want."

"No," he says immediately, "It's alright. It's my fault, I can be a bit of an insomniac sometimes."

All she could say to that is "Oh."

"What about you? Shouldn't you be asleep at this hour too?" he leans on the door frame, places his hands in his pockets, crosses his ankles. His blond hair is ringed with the firelight.

"I have a lot on my mind," she replies.

"Hence the wine."

Mary agrees, nods, "Hence the wine."

"Does your mother know you're drinking already? Or are you still sneaking like a thief despite being of legal age and all?" He strides towards her, legs swinging from the hours of sleep he so lacks. He settles on the other end of the sofa, draping his arm over it casually.

"She does. But Papa will have a fit if he knows how much of the stuff I'm taking," she scoffs at her own rebellion; she is still young, after all. Only eighteen and she will go to college come October. "I mean, I'm careful. I know I'll get a bit tipsy after second glass. The headache becomes worse on the third."

"I can trust you, then. Alcohol and couches doesn't normally end well for most people, you know," he teases, bringing a slight curl at the ends of Mary's stained lips.

She resumes to her slouch, finally giving up at the act. "But we're not most people."

"No, we're not," he pauses for a moment, surveying the air between them if she would say anything or not. She didn't and swirls the bottom of her glass, observing the tides of the wine. "So... penny for the thoughts you're having earlier?"

She's faster than light in her lies. Years of practice had done her great skill. "You're not a part of it is all you need to know."

"I don't know if I should be glad or concerned about that," he murmurs almost only to himself, "But really, what is it?"

"Just…" she blinks, finding a good lie, "…life in general."

Matthew chuckles, thinking he finally knows what's on Mary's head. She ought to pity him but she's too amused at the moment. He says, "You have no idea what to do in college, don't you? After you get your degree in English Language and Lit?" It is her mother who told Matthew that she'll study English and Literature in Oxford, Mary had glared at her for disclosing it, and Isobel had told her it's wonderful (Mary's sure she's just saying that to be nice). To be honest, the topic disgusts her mostly because she has no idea what to do after three years of studying it.

The library supplied her with the books no other girl could get their hands on, and no other ambitious writer could dream of creating. But it also supplied her twelve-year-old mind that perhaps she could live in book pages for all eternity. She could be an editor, as her mother suggested, or write for anything, really – magazines, blogs, and novels—since that's what she wants. The Crawley in her name could get her far, Cora had told anxious eldest daughter. But she always wants to travel and learn more how to cook and volunteer for UNICEF and practice her French and – maybe she'll just get a master's degree, then. Yes, definitely get her masters. "Oh, please, Matthew. I don't think too much about it, I already know what I'll do."

"What? Sulk in your room while you wait for prince charming to woo you with his poems or wait for your dad to die so you can finally have Downton?" he sneers, although he can go a little too playful.

"I'm not even that kind of person!"

"The latter or the former?"

"Are you suggesting that I will become an unaccomplished woman? And chivalry's dead, for your information, William may marry Kate but nobody recites poems for romance anymore," she says, a hint of indifference in her voice.

He looked utterly gobsmacked, and the sound of the chuckle afterwards makes Mary wonder whether or not she should hit the man with the wine bottle. No, that would be messy. "Mary Crawley, you are a dreamer!" he says, still giggling on the fact that he caught her. Mary rolled her eyes, ignoring the fact that his enjoyment of her turns her blood into lava.

"What?"

"You have an impossible taste in men, you know," he speaks with some kind of fascination. Then he shrugs his shoulders, "But nevertheless, it's never too bad to be a hopeless romantic."

Mary finishes her glass of wine, and feeling the headaches about to attack, she sets it down. She protests at his comment, "I'm not a hopeless romantic! But at least I have my bars set high."

He sees this as some kind of challenge or play, so he straightens his posture, but he still has his arm draped over the sofa. In some sense of mockery, he cleared his throat, and pretends to be serious. Dramatically, he pronounces a poem, his Manchester-bred voice deepens, _"Tonight I can write the saddest lines/ Write, for example, 'the night is starry__/ and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance' –"_

"Oh, please," Mary interrupts him, causing Matthew to sigh in frustration and slouch again. "Do I look like the mainstream woman who's easily smitten by Neruda?"

"Then, what _do _you want? Hmmm…" Matthew presses two fingers to his temple, pretending to be Professor X and reading Mary's mind. Mary scoffs at this, crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises an eyebrow. Matthew leans in closer, even squinting like the arse that he is. He snaps his fingers piercingly and returned to his dramatic demeanor. "_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock- kneed—"_

"CHRIST! Stop it!" Mary hit him with a throw pillow, stopping his recitation mid-line. She is laughing herself, although there is a turmoil inside her – like the magma inside a volcano that's about to erupt. She knows the poem – every word by heart.

He continues his performance, this time a little louder, but his snickers are crumbling the dramatic effect he had set, "_—coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,/ till on the haunting flares we turned our backs—" _Another hit of pillow from Mary, who's cracking up in laughter.

Matthew grabs a throw pillow too, and blocks Mary's oncoming pillow with it. Mary has quick reflexes, and she immediately slaps the pillow on his head, messing up the otherwise neat blond hair. "Damn you, Crawley lady!" She's doubled over in guffaws, and Matthew hits her on the shoulder with the soft pillow.

She intends to hit him again on his head, but her focus is losing from the laughter and the pillow slips from her fingertips and over Matthew's head. "Ah, that's shite."

He took the opportunity to slap her shoulder again, but the pillow is swiftly out of his hands and into hers and pummels on his head. "You're stupid at this," Mary notes at his weak skill.

"And you're hopeless in _love_, admit it," he jeers at her, over-emphasising on the word 'love'.

"Unlucky, perhaps," she corrects his statement – truthfully, this time, "But not completely hopeless."

He raises two fingers, "Ditto."

It is an understatement to say that Mary is astounded. She hadn't really given a thought on the subject of Matthew as someone's lover before. And there is hardly an image conjuring in her mind of this. "Oh?"

He leans for the wine and the extra glass on the centre table, and pours himself some of the vile liquid and even pours a little for Mary's glass. "That's a story for another time."

"Tomorrow, then?" _Oh God, Mary Crawley, don't. _But the words are out of her lips before she could filter them. She has no choice but to continue. "Since you're going to tour the grounds tomorrow, I might as well join you."

"Our parents would go bollocks on the idea," he says, "Agreed."

Matthew gently offers the glass to Mary, and with playful smiles, they clinked their glasses, the thin sound of it over-powering the crackle of the fire.

...

Her heart is pounding, threatening to claw out of her ribcage.

She had just said goodnight to Matthew when their ways parted in front of Mary's bedroom. The walk back to her room feels like a march through mud – her knees feel liquid and she has no idea whether to burst into tears of sadness or happiness. As soon as the door closes, she presses her ear on the oak, waiting for the leaving footsteps. When Matthew is finally gone, she swiftly tears out of the robe, onto the bed and hides herself under her quilt. She doesn't know why she does this, so she reaches on the vanity table for her phone.

Anna is always on speed dial, thank God. Three times, the call went to Anna's voicemail. When she finally reaches through, the blond girl on the other end sounds mumbles inaudibly, giving Mary reason to ignore her.

She keeps her voice quiet, and hisses at the phone, "Anna, he's done it!" Mary wants to break herself apart, tear her insides brick by brick like the fortress Bastille. She doesn't know what to feel yet, and that frustrates her even more. "He did the thing! Oh God, Anna, I'm screwed!"

The almost-mute rumple of sheets on the other end of the line suggests that Anna was alerted and sat up immediately, her voice is always still clear every time she wakes up. "Mary? Wait, who's done what? And why are you whispering?"

In her normal voice, a little quietly, she states, "Matthew! He did it, Anna!"

"Woah, wait. You met already? What did he do?!" Anna sounds impatient. To be fair, Mary's terms are completely vague.

Mary breathes first – as much air as she could breathe in under the blankets. Then, calmly, she explains, "You know my terms for the man I'll marry? I promised you that when we're sixteen, before I leave for New York."

"It's only one condition, I remember. He has to read or recite or something that Wilfred Owen poem," she mutters. Slowly, the pieces in her head are aligning into place. "Oh, shit, Mary, really?"

"Yes, that's why I'm telling you!"

"But it's too early, you've only met him today – or yesterday, whatever – and shit, Mary Crawley!"

Desperately, she clings on her pillows. She bites her lip, fighting the oncoming tears. No, she will not cry tonight. Nor will she weep tomorrow or the day after or the next. She will see hopelessness but she will not lament. "It's a sign, Anna, that I'm doomed for the rest of my life."

"Oh, come on, Mary. Maybe things will change."

"Maybe things won't."

"Did he even finish? Until the last line?"

"Well... no," Mary admits sheepishly.

She couldn't see her but she knows Anna is rolling her eyes. "Then you're not tied to him. Boom. Done."

"But—"

Anna is normally patient if needs be, but it's two in the morning and she's relishing all the sleep she could gain back from last year's A-Levels term before the Michaelmas term of Oxford begins in autumn. "In the day, Mary, please. I'll talk to you in the day. Go to sleep now. Night."

Before she could say goodnight herself, Anna hung up, and Mary stopped clinging to her pillows. There are a lot of probable events in her head at the moment – the good and the bad, the fairytale and the tragedy – and she fixes herself on her bed first, coming out of the blanket and placing her phone on the bedside table, face down.

She is staring at the ceiling until three-thirty in the morning. Before the early morning light hints the sky, she finally gives in to Morpheus, and in the morning, she will forget what she'd dreamt of that night - only that there is running involved. There is always running in her dreams.

* * *

_Disclaimer:_ The two poems Matthew recited in this chapter are "Tonight I can write the saddest lines" by Pablo Neruda and "Dulce et Decorum est" by Wilfred Owen. Downton Abbey does not belong to me and all rights go to their rightful owners.


	3. An Apology

I am soooo sorry for the long delay, and I'm afraid it will go on for a little longer. The past few weeks had been unpredictably hectic, and I can only expect the following weeks to be even more busy. We still have a school event we have to prepare for, exams, then another school event I have to plan out. I underestimated my time, it seems. Again, I am so so sorry.

I have to take a hiatus. But, from the words of Douglas MacArthur, I shall return.

Please forgive me. :(


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